


Like Sugar and Spice

by ijemanja



Category: Noir (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2005-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/pseuds/ijemanja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it feels like to be a killer in a little girl's body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Sugar and Spice

_Sugar and spice, and all things nice - that's what little girls are made of._

*

Security in the public galleries is negligible - Kirika bypasses the metal detectors by entering through a bathroom window. No one notices her, then, just a girl making her way through the exhibits. She could be part of a school group, or a family of tourists - she could be anyone. She walks up to the bank of lifts as if she knows just where she's going. Which she does.

The men at the guard station are jumpy, obviously aware of the important meeting going on behind closed door in this part of the building. They are expecting her, having watched her approach via the security cameras. When she steps off the lift and walks down the corridor towards them, though, their expressions are puzzled rather than wary.

Today, she is an actress.

"I'm looking for my father," she says, turning her head to look uncertainly back the way she came.

One guard picks up a clipboard. He's wearing a wedding ring, she notes, he probably has children at home.

"What is his name?" he asks kindly.

Just a harmless little girl. Certainly no threat to anyone. She steps closer to the desk, and this is when the lights go out.

*

They go shopping in the morning.

"Look at these," Mireille says.

She turns one over in her hand. Purple, spiked heel, pointed toe.

"They're my size, too," she adds gleefully, throwing herself down into the nearest chair to try them on.

This isn't the first time they've become sidetracked this morning. Or Mireille has, anyway. Mireille likes shopping, and Kirika doesn't mind it, and this is how it works with them, mostly.

They buy shoes and other necessities and on the way home they stop at the grocers on the corner. The man at the deli counter greets Mireille enthusiastically.

"And look, it's your little shadow," he winks in Kirika's direction.

Then he and Mireille smile as if sharing a joke, while he hands over a wrapped parcel of ricotta.

"Don't worry, we won't go back there again," Mireille says when they leave the shop, the friendly mask dropping from her face.

Kirika knows what Mireille means by this. She means they shouldn't establish a routine. It isn't good for people to know them, know their faces - even fat, balding deli men who deal in olives and prosciutto all day.

"I know," Kirika says, holding their numerous bags and packages against her chest. They won't go back there.

*

It's only a few seconds before the emergency generators kick in, but it's enough - she's past the station and moving down the hall. Her gun is out, and she shoots over her shoulder, not caring if she hits them - although she hears one then another choke out a scream - merely aiming to distract them, to prevent them from bringing the security system back on line. Once activated, it will cut her off from her destination.

Sprinting towards a set of double doors at the end of the corridor, she's still metres away when the metal grill starts to descend. She has to roll beneath it, and comes up shooting.

They are waiting for her at the secondary security station beyond, ready for action. Two of them. No performance required now, she takes them out before they can get off a single round.

As she passes through she pauses briefly to watch a slender black shadow steal across one of the monitors. Mireille, making her way now up from the bowels of the building, through the archives and workrooms, towards the service elevator shaft which will bring her to this floor.

It's the distraction of only a moment, no more.

*

"It's hardly the Louvre," Mireille says. "We won't have any trouble getting in through the ground floor and basement. It's what's on the upper levels that worries me."

Mireille clicks quietly through the pages of blueprints displayed on the screen one more time before shutting down the computer. Kirika moves away from her side. It will be time to go, soon.

They get dressed. Kirika buckles on shiny black shoes and pulls up a pair of white knee-socks, and changes her t-shirt for another. It's pink, with cartoon kittens on it. It's new, like the shoes.

When she's finished, Mireille steps up behind her and pulls Kirika's hair back with a headband. It's got big fuzzy purple pompoms on it. Mireille saw it that morning and said: "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. It's perfect."

Mireille walks around her to take in the whole effect - the kittens, the shiny shoes, the pompoms, the ruffled skirt Mireille dug out of the back of her wardrobe.

"You look so cute - couldn't you just vomit?"

Kirika doesn't reply, just looks at her, alarmed.

Mireille rolls her eyes.

"You look perfect. Like you've been dipped in sugar and spice. Well, maybe the sugar. I'm the spice." She grins and slides her hand down over her hip to her thigh, smoothing the sleek material of her catsuit. "Here, zip me up." She presents her back to Kirika, who does as she asks.

Kirika watches as Mireille stands in front of the mirror and pulls her hair back in a pony-tail.

"Don't you love playing dress-up?" she asks.

Again Kirika doesn't reply. She doesn't need to - Mireille is quite capable of carrying on a conversation by herself.

"We should find excuses to do this more often," she says, right on cue.

Kirika joins her at the mirror. They couldn't be more different right now. Mireille, beautiful, sleek and dangerous, while Kirika... Her eyes drift up to the purple-fluff-covered headband, and then over to meet Mireille's eyes.

Mireille looks for a moment like she's trying not to laugh.

"Okay," she says finally, "Let's go."

*

Four of them, two on either side of the t-intersection up ahead. A coordinated team of what can only be professional bodyguards, drawn out by the sound of gunfire. They only occupy her for a minute, including the time it takes for her to reload.

She turns left, and the door she wants is second on the right. It's ajar, and she kicks it open as she darts past, taking up position on the far side, assessing the room in that split second viewing. Gunfire chases after her, bullet holes marring the wall opposite.

A long boardroom, stylishly furnished. Half a dozen men, all armed. One face stands out - the target.

"I knew this was a set up!" someone roars inside the room, punctuated by the sound of gunfire.

Someone is dead. Someone who may or may not have actually been their target - though most likely not. Which hardly matters, except that there are less of them now for Kirika to deal with. She uses the distraction to dart inside.

*

Mireille manoeuvres the rental car through the light mid-afternoon traffic with ease. Mireille always drives. It's not because Kirika doesn't know how, though, because she could if she had to.

"Maybe you could get your licence," Mireille said once.

It's something they haven't gotten around to. Maybe they won't - it's not very important. And could be problematic, given the necessity for maintaining anonymity in their lives.

At the time, though, Kirika thought it was nice of her to suggest it, at least.

"Give me thirty minutes," Mireille says then, as she pulls up illegally in a bus stop.

She already knows the plan, and Mireille knows that she knows, but Kirika nods anyway before getting out of the car.

Mireille leans over and waves out the window, calling after her, "Have a good time!"

Like a parent dropping off her daughter. Kirika adjusts the straps of her backpack and doesn't look back: a teenager ignoring her embarrassing mother.

*

Three go down fast, leaving two bodyguards and the target to go.

One pushes his charge to the ground, covering him with his own body while he shoots - somewhat wildly - in Kirika's direction.

She's on the other side of the table, lining up a shot between the many chair and table legs. Mindful of the other making his way around towards her, she pulls the trigger once, at just the right moment - the bullet enters neatly in the centre of his back and bodyguard one is down. If he lives, he'll never walk again. But she's almost certain he won't live.

Bodyguard two fires then, at the space she occupied split seconds before. She is already vaulting over the table, but the target is still covered, now by a corpse, and she can't get there before the remaining bodyguard's aim catches up with her. She changes direction almost in mid-air, just as another bullet whistles by her ear from an unexpected source - not the bodyguard behind her, but from the doorway.

*

When they get home Kirika goes straight into the bathroom. She runs water into the sink and pulls her top over her head, only to have Mireille reach around her and turn off one of the taps.

"Hot water just sets the stain," she says, looking askance at Kirika as she takes the t-shirt from her. "Everyone in our line of work knows that. Every woman does too, for that matter."

She frowns down at the material she's working between her fingers under the cold water. Then she pauses for the briefest moment and looks up at Kirika in the mirror, and Kirika sees it: pity, annoyance, detachment, the lightning-fast play of emotions in Mireille's brief glance.

She wants to say: "I'm not a child."

But she doesn't even come close. Watches, instead, the dark stains bleeding out of the candy-pink cotton, running down the drain.

Mireille is right, though - this seems like something she should know. She has no idea why she remembers some things and not others. Of course, answering that question alone might be half the mystery solved.

"I don't know why I know the things I do," she says finally. "Or the things I've forgotten."

Mireille sighs.

"I know," she says, like an apology.

Then she wrings out the shirt and lays it over a towel-rack to dry.

"I don't think I'll wear it again," Kirika says.

It's not that she cares all that much about clothes. Whatever's comfortable, whatever she's used to, suits her fine. She doesn't like the kittens, though. Or maybe it's the dressing up that she doesn't like.

"Maybe I'll borrow it," Mireille says brightly over her shoulder as she leaves Kirika alone in the bathroom.

Mireille sings sometimes in the shower. Kirika stands under the water silently as she washes blood from her hair.

Sometimes, she doesn't like the sound of her own voice. It's not the reason she doesn't say much - especially compared to Mireille - but she's aware of it all the same. Small and childish, timid, shy: a little girl's voice.

Kirika suspects she didn't really need the headband and the knee-socks and the kittens today - Mireille wanted to dress up, so they dressed up.

She doesn't need to wonder what people see when they look at her. They never see a killer - not until they die. They see a girl. Just a girl. It's a problem that Mireille doesn't share. Sometimes they - targets, enemies, men - underestimate Mireille because she is a woman, but they never doubt that she is one.

*

She risks a glance over her shoulder as she launches off the table, throwing herself against the wall in the only cover available to her now. It's the guard with the clipboard, who asked for her name.

Between the two of them, they have her in a crossfire, but she won't stay down for long. She doesn't need to look - she knows where both of them are. She raises her gun around the edge of the sideboard she's crouched behind to take out the bodyguard. He must have been waiting for this, however, and is close enough - or skilled enough - to pull off such a shot. The gun flies from her grasp, her hand stinging as she pulls it back out of the line of fire.

The bodyguard advances then, bearing down on her position. His next shot gouges out a chunk of wood next to her head. A moment later she hears the empty click of a trigger instead of another shot, and it's the opportunity she needs, and she's up. He's fast, though - meets her with a small, efficient blade in hand, his discarded firearm on the floor.

Gunfire from across the room tracks her movement, but she's expecting it, and darts around, putting her opponent between herself and the guard at the door.

*

"We need shampoo," she says as she comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her and water from her hair still dripping down her back.

"And ice cream," Mireille adds. She's lying across the bed on her stomach, her head hanging over the side, staring at the floor. "I ate it all. While you were in the shower."

And then her shoulders shake a little - she's laughing at herself.

Once back in her normal clothes, Kirika sits on a corner of the bed, her legs crossed. Mireille turns onto her side, resting her head on her hand.

"You never laugh," she says. It's almost an accusation. "Don't you ever find anything funny?"

Kirika thinks about it.

"Yes," she replies.

Mireille sighs and shakes her head.

"Well... maybe that's just one more thing you need to remember."

Kirika brings her knees up to her chest and looks at her toes. There are a lot of things she needs to remember: how she wound up in an apartment in Tokyo, who put her there, who her real family is - if she even has one. This is all information that, even if she herself has forgotten, then someone, somewhere must know.

How to laugh at silly things, how to sing in the shower, how to be a woman - Kirika wonders whether she ever knew these things to begin with.

She looks at Mireille, stretched out before her, relaxed and at ease. She's still wearing the black outfit, but her hair is down and her feet are bare. Mireille, she thinks, might just know enough about normal things for both of them.

"You ate all the ice cream?" she says finally.

"There wasn't that much left," Mireille protests, looking at Kirika, trying not to smile again, and only half succeeding.

Her face evens out after a while, grows thoughtful, and though they're close enough to touch, suddenly the distance between them seems vast. The moment too stretches out as they consider each other, until Mireille's gaze hardens.

"It shouldn't be this way, you know," she says. "It could be dangerous."

Kirika does know. She always knows what Mireille means.

This time, Mireille means that this is starting to feel routine, that they are comfortable together. The partnership itself could be a liability to what they hope to achieve.

"Do you think we could ever hate each other?" she asks, because it seems like the only other option.

Mireille lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, staring at the space between them on the bed.

"It would be easier. That's my point."

And she knows what Mireille is thinking now - she's thinking: "I'll kill you, I will."

Kirika is thinking about what it will be like to fight Mireille.

She doesn't want to hurt Mireille. And she doesn't want to die. But what else is left for them?

She could run away, she thinks. But she can't stand the thought of not being here, with Mireille. And maybe it will all end in bloodshed and death, but there's nothing different about that.

Kirika shrugs back.

"Why should it be easy? Easy isn't better, Mireille."

Mireille flops over onto her back at that, and after a while says to the ceiling: "How come you're so wise, anyway?"

There's wry amusement in her voice now, and Kirika knows the conversation is over.

"I'm not wise," she wants to reply, but this is the way it goes - the mood following Mireille's lead. At her whim they are serious and professional or frivolous or idle. Kirika doesn't mind, though. She doesn't mind following Mireille's lead.

Tomorrow, she'll follow her through the streets again, through the market as they buy shampoo and ice cream and whatever else strikes Mireille's fancy. There's comfort in that certainty. It's comforting, even knowing that it can't last forever.

She wants to tell Mireille this, to share all the thoughts in her head, about comfort and kittens, and the guard with the clipboard, and what it feels like to be a killer in a little girl's body.

But she doesn't.

She wants to say: "I'm not like you."

But the words won't come.

"How's your throat?" Mireille says suddenly. "Looks like you'll have some nice bruises."

Kirika lifts one hand, touches the tender places making a ring around her neck.

"It's all right."

Mireille nods once, and casts her eyes back up to the ceiling.

"Hey," she adds, almost absently, "Next time I'll wear the goofy outfit, okay?"

Kirika is smiling almost before she realises it.

"Okay."

Maybe she doesn't need to find the words, she realises. Maybe Mireille already knows.

Mireille, who is now wrapping her arms over her stomach and looking slightly ill.

"I don't think I should have eaten it all," she says, and laughs once more.

*

He's fast despite his hulking size, and well-trained. He has one enormous hand around her throat, while the other is bearing down on her. It takes all her strength to keep the knife from descending. Her vision is starting to blur around the edges when there are shots from out in the corridor. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the guard at the door go down. Two more shots, and the hand at her throat goes slack.

Mireille has arrived.

Kirika wrenches the knife from the bodyguard's grasp as he falls, and she turns to meet the target who is now rising from the floor with gun in hand. She lunges forward, knocking his arm wide and slashing with the knife at the same time, and his throat erupts outward, arterial blood flowing hot and fast. His death isn't instantaneous, but it's close enough.

And then it's over.

She's breathing fast through her nose, but even now she can feel her heart-rate slowing, the adrenaline ebbing away. With it go the endorphins, and she starts to feel it, in her throat especially - she will be bruised and sore for days.

She hears Mireille picking her way across the body-strewn floor towards her.

"All his?" she asks, coming to stand before Kirika and taking in her appearance.

She looks down. Her entire front is spattered with blood. It's sticky where it has soaked through to her skin, and already starting to dry on her bare arms and face.

Mireille, who doesn't have a speck on her - not that it would show much on the black - is waiting for an answer.

Kirika nods once. Yes, all his.

Mireille shrugs.

"Sometimes it's messy," she says.

end


End file.
